Does it matter that most of us do our grieving every day on Facebook, so... nah, I can't excuse it. We suck.
All I do is whine about Higgs Boson research detractors and bitch about man stuff on a podcast and I can't take 5 minutes out of my day to update this site? I'm this delicate? I should be caned.
But rather than let a sacred day go by without addressing it, I'll squeeze one out.
I’ll start with the guy who brings his own bowling ball to the bowling alley for a casual game. This has to be the year we’re done with it. I know there’s a whole industry built around artisans who went to three years of custom bowling ball crafting school and studied Metaphysical Concepts of Hole Drilling at MIT, but, in 2012, how about they take those skills to Quizno’s and learn to make overly fancy sandwiches instead?
Do you know what the rest of us are thinking when we see you? We’re thinking... no, wait... hang on... let me do it this way so you get the full perspective...
Let’s say you and me are friends, custom bowling ball enthusiast. We’re not, but let’s say we are. You and I decide to head out to get a bite to eat. Maybe you invite one of your asshole custom bowling ball buddies to join us because he likes pasta and you like to laugh at him for getting noodles stuck in his bushy moustache halfway through the meal.
We sit down and we’re ordering. You ask the waiter what Fettucuni al Faenus Aegini is because you’re an American and you don’t speak Italian. Why Italian restaurants everywhere like to put this shit all over their menus and watch us squirm, I don’t know. But while you’re trying to sort out what animal a Faenus is, you notice out of the corner of your eye that I’m pulling my own fork and knife out of a bag.
They’re very nice. Well made. Smooth tines on the fork. Better than Revere quality. You’re impressed, but you can’t help but say, “Hey... you know... they have those things here. You don’t need to bring your own.” I say, “Yeah, but I like mine better. I got this fork custom shaped to fit perfectly inside my mouth.” Your buddy says, “How much better can your fork be? All you’re doing is eating pasta. Stab the noodle. Eat the noodle. Leave a little in your moustache, maybe.” I say, “Yeah, but I eat very well, and when you take your eating seriously, it’s time to step up and get a custom set of cutlery. You know how many years you’re taking off your jaws using the crap they have here? Respect your mouth and respect the game.” You say, “Come on, this is embarrassing. Use the silverware they have here. it’s very nice. You don’t want to insult the restaurant, do you?” I say, “Let them be insulted. I’m over here eating pasta like the pros. I like a softer angle on my palate than they offer here. Why shouldn’t I have what I like?” Your buddy says, “Hey asshole - what happens when the busboy comes and takes your fork from you because he can’t tell its yours? Come on.” And that’s when I show you the custom monogram I had crafted into the handles.
Okay... right now... you know that look you have in your eye? That thing you’re thinking about me? That’s exactly what normal people are thinking when you pull the custom bowling ball out of the bag. Cut the shit. Thank you.
Next up is the guy who asks you if you know what’s in a hot dog before you eat a hot dog. Maybe you’re about to take a bite and you’re with a guy who doesn’t typically accompany you to Sonic, so he’s aghast at what you’re about to do to yourself. He says, “Ew....” or, if he’s being even more condescending, he says, “umm... do you know what those things are made of?”
Nope. I’m the one guy. Everyone else in the world knows hot dogs are made of spare parts, leftover chiglets, scrapple, honeybadgers, pieces of animal flesh they tore off of shrapnel after the war, knifed unregistered Koreans, unholy tapirs, skink gizzards and rancid cock, but not me. I somehow made it through my entire life, all the way to this shining cock-chomping moment without knowing any of that. And I want to thank you, dick, for enlightening me on the topic.
Did you know that every time you smell a fart, you’re inhaling flecks of someone’s shit? They’re really small, but that’s what you’re doing. Your olfactory nerves sense the shit as it lands inside your nose and tells you what it smells. But... you’re still breathing, right? You ain’t giving up on oxygen aspiration just because there’s someone’s renegade defecation involved, are you? That’s me and the hot dog. It’s nasty, but I like it. How ‘bout you shut the fuck up and let me eat my dead Korean scrapple in peace?
Now for the white guy who thinks white culture is lost or that America has somehow become racist against white people. OK, buddy.... you ready for this? Have a seat. You want a drink of flavored water? I want you to be comfortable while I break the news to you. Ready?
America loves white people. Even today, with the black president and the 50 million Hispanics and the signs on them that have words in non-English. America loves you guys to death. You know how I know? Here’s something America likes to do for you that you may not notice...
Turn on your TV. You see how VH1 has on that show “Top 100 Songs of the 80’s According to White People,” but they only call it “Top 100 Songs of the 80’s”? There you go. If it was just a regular list of the best songs of the 80’s, you’d see some Frankie Beverly and Maze. Fortunately, it’s just a list for white guys, so they gave Frankie’s spot to Split Enz. Feel better? Now, open up your eyes and realize that this sort of thing goes on everywhere. White culture isn’t lost. It’s just the one culture that nobody ever labels by it’s color.
If you were watching BET and they were just calling it “Entertainment Television,” wouldn’t you say to yourself, “Um... this isn’t regular entertainment. This is pretty much just black entertainment. Why is everybody talking so loud?” Of course you would.
So, maybe you’re starting to see a little parity across the racial landscape as far as hiring goes. And opportunity. Maybe a few doors are closed to you from time to time because of your race. Guess what? That’s how the last 300 years have been to the rest of us in America, and we still got through it okay.A few nicks and scars - plus quite a few more fire hoses than I’m comfortable with - but It’s not that bad in the end. Get over yourself. Crack open a Snapple.
Fuck you, the guy who takes his shirt off when he gets emotional. First of all... really? Is it ever so hot that you need to air out your tits? Be a goddamned human, if you can. We wear shirts. It’s in the manual.
Second, I’ve got a theory about you that I’d love to test. I’ve seen you leaving the bar or club at 2 AM after a fight with a bartender, not wearing the shirt you came in with. I’ve seen you at the baseball game, waving your shirt over your head while your team rallies back. I think you might be a half-human, half-chupacabra evolutionary anomaly because you’ve still got your animal sensibilities about you and they come out when the adrenaline starts to get a little high.
I’m going to wait for a full moon, then bring a raw steak with me to a club or a game. Let you get a little tipsy. Maybe stoke your fires by telling you some asshole was looking at you kinda hard. Play one of DMX’s singles over the house speakers. Then, when you’re at fever pitch, I’m going to toss the steak in the air.
If you catch it in your jaws, then run off and start growling in a corner, I’m right. If you then run to a junkyard and start fucking a stray dog, I’m even righter. Either way, you need to be in a goddamned kennel with Chris Brown, William Ligue Jr. and the rest of your clan. You’re so fucking emotional. You’re like Mariah Carey if she was a coyote.
I can’t stand the guy who calls his job by it’s full scientific name instead of what it really is. Like the guy who tells you he’s a herpetologist when he really feeds the lizards at the zoo crickets every day.
Here’s my thing... we know lizards need to eat crickets. If somebody didn’t do that, they’d all die. We know the importance of feeding the lizards because we’re not stupid. What you do is a vital job, provided we want to see lizards in captivity alive after two weeks. So, why do you feel the need to fancy the shit up and put a few syllables on it just to impress somebody?
It’s like... you’re not a goddamned botanist - you water plants! We like plants! Just say you water the fucking plants!! Like we’re going to hear you say all you do is water the plants, then tie you up to a ship’s mast and send you off to sea to die Cris Carter Style because your job is too simple? No, we want our plants watered, so you get to go to work tomorrow. Bring the watering can with the long spout too, if you can.
And who is it for, anyway? Who hears “herpetologist” and has a better understanding of the guy’s job than if he just said he feeds the lizards? Are you trying to trip people up? Do you want to make us think, “oh, he feeds the lizards, but if one of them happens to need an appendectomy, he’s also here to cut it open and operate.” Embrace honesty.
There’s a guy at my job - he’s the guy who stands directly in front of the coffee machine while other people want coffee. First of all, it’s the office kitchen. It’s a nothing place. A room of sadness and lament, where people who hate themselves stare at their Lean Cuisines turning inside the weird microwave without numbers on it. Why does anyone want to spend any amount of time in there? Pour the coffee and get the fuck out.
Second... how complicated is your life? You pour the coffee, then you stand there and mutter about, gathering sugars and powdered creamers and you tinker with the little wood sticklet with some sort of delusion that you’re going to improve the quality of the office joe via accessorizing. Sure, other people are standing behind you, desperately hoping you’ll shift three feet to the left and allow them to get a cuppa, but you’re too busy shaking sugar packets to maximize the number of granules you get in each bag. This is your big power move of the day? How hard is your job that you need to make this much of an investment in yourself as the day kicks off? I’ve wanted to strangle you for a year.
Next up is his cousin - the guy who takes a minute to situate himself before pulling ahead at the drive through. Tell me if you’ve seen this. You’re in your car, second in line to get your chicken sandwich or ATM cash or what have you and you’re waiting for the person ahead of you to be done. He reaches up, gets his receipt then returns his hand to his car. For a half second, you take your foot off the brake because, reasonably, you’re about two seconds away from the window, but wait... what’s this?
You see the guy reach down into the seat next to him. Is he fumbling around with napkins? Fumbling his card back in his wallet? He’s fumbling with a cell phone. He’s fumbling with the rear view mirror. If he was on your fantasy football team, he’d have scored negative 6 points on this one play. There goes the season.
After a minute, because you’re an angry dick, you give your horn a tap. “Move along, cunt,” you mutter under your breath while smiling at him. You like saying ‘cunt’ when other people can’t hear you. It makes you feel like a rebel. He gives the courtesy wave, takes his car out of park (he was in park?), then goes right back to fumbling. He fumbles slightly more hurriedly and tosses in passing waves at you, but he’s still not getting out of the fucking way.
I’d like to pass a law. If you receive your receipt and haven’t pulled off to address your fumble business elsewhere, I’d like to walk up to the side of your car and stab you in the neck. Hear me out.... Normally, this is illegal. I acknowledge that. But if you haven’t pulled away in the amount of time it takes me to get up there and jake you sideways in the bleeder, then I should get off with a clean record. Plus, I get to keep whatever you ordered at the Jack in the Box. I think my terms are reasonable.
What about the guy who wants to save every endangered species, including the ones that don’t exactly add to the harmonious collective, like komodo dragons?
Komodo dragons run something like 12 miles per hour, climb trees, stand 6 feet tall upright, have claws and teeth designed to easily tear flesh, instantly poison animals with a single venomous bite, develop complicated hunting strategies, and... oh, they like human flesh. You want to preserve this thing?
True story - I took my daughters to the zoo to see the komodo dragons and the older, more literate daughter of the two was reading the description plate next to the exhibit. She said, “Komodo dragons eat birds, lizards, fish, insects, large mammals and... the occasional human? Wait... what?”
So, can we talk about this for a second? When you go to the zoo and you see lions and tigers, it doesn’t say they eat the occasional human. Sure, lions and tigers are more than capable of hunting and eating people like humans hunt and eat nachos during the SuperBowl, but the zoo leaves that detail out because - hey - it doesn’t happen that often and we don’t need to scare the kids, right? But komodos? They like us so much that the zoo felt legally obligated to disclose this on the info placard. That goes beyond the pale. If there was an Italian restaurant for komodos, they’d serve a meal called Tortellini al Dude Parts. And we’d be garnished with bird corpses.
So, whenever I read about conservation efforts to save them because “oh, they only exist on one island” and “oh, the precious ecology of earth,” and “oh, my tits hurt because I’m on my period,” I always think... screw that. These things are faster, smarter and meaner than a vegan - by a lot. We should be testing our nukes over there. Fuck ‘em.
I mean, we’re willing to destroy the earth’s precious ecology because we like always having wood and plastic within arm’s reach, right? I’m okay with screwing up nature’s balance if it means we’ve eliminated one of our natural enemies. Isn’t that why we invented weapons in the first place? Warm up the machine guns, focus them on the big lizards, put some holes in the ground.
I’d also like to file a grievance with the first guy who decided that we should call the hand-held radio a “walkie talkie.”
Really? I’m glad you were apparently fired from the company after your first naming effort and weren’t given the opportunity to ruin other products, because otherwise, I’d have to grab my cutty-slicey, hop into my drivey-turney, find you in your sleepie-snorey one night and save the world from having to tolerate any more of your asinine branding efforts.
Were you planning on selling a lot of these things to 3 year olds? Who else is that name for? Do functionally retarded people find themselves wanting to speak to other functionally retarded people over radio waves often? Was Forrest Whittaker really looking forward to the conversation?
Who’s the jackass that decided that all new shirts need to come with 1,700 tags on them, ensuring that whenever you buy clothes, you’ve got to dedicate a half hour to playing the “Find Them All Or Look Like a Dick At Work” game?
I believe in proper labeling. I think open disclosure is fair. I just don’t see why some guy had to say:
“Alright. We’ve got one that lists the size and cut and another that lists the price. Let’s get another one on there with the company’s logo. Maybe two. And let’s put on of them on a heavy string instead of easily removed plastic cord so the guy who buys it damned near rips off the button trying to get it off. And, just for clarity’s sake, let’s get the size listed a second time on a clear sticker that’s hard to see and slap that on the back somewhere. What do you think - should we double up on the laundry instructions too? Let’s do it. Let’s waste more paper and plastic. Precious ecology of earth be damned. Do we have anything on the sleeve yet? Let’s get a few tags on the sleeves too in random places. And, hey, Steve? Bring a me a few hundred of those pins you’ve got over there. I’m sticking a bitch tonight.”
And while I’m bitching about retail products, who is making the fucking blankets these days? Look. How about this? When I get on the couch and I decide I need a blanket, I don’t get pissy and think, “Why doesn’t this thing have sleeves? And would it kill someone to sew a cup holder on this thing?” Nobody ever got in a blanket and wished for accessories. You’ve got to be a dainty bitch if you think your blanket needs to have apps installed.
All anybody wants from the blanket is this. You ready?
1. Be warm and dense. This chintzy fleece shit you get at the Walgreen’s isn’t cutting it. A blanket should feel like you can lay under it and survive an alien attack. I want the blanket that feels like I could lay it over a grenade and finish my coffee in peace.
2. Be long enough to comfortably cover the feet and neck simultaneously. No more of this horse shit where you have to either curl into the fetal or risk sacrificing a body part to Shiva’s icy grip. Are we god damned dwarfs or something? Are we planning on invading the elf village later riding on chocobo’s? How about putting some square footage on the thing and maybe letting a human being move his feet around without breaking the seal?
If you’re at the blanket research facility and you’re designing a product that does something other than those two, take a lunch break. We don’t need you working so hard this week. Make it warm and long. Think churro. That’s it.
I’ve got hundreds of problems with the guys who run Facebook. To say Facebook has issues with boundaries and privacy leaves a lot off the table. If Facebook was your boyfriend, he’d be saying things like:
“Why does your butt hurt? Last night, while you were sleeping, I had anal sex with you. Frankly, you never explicitly told me not to do it and I never promised you that I’d let you know before or after I did. But think of how much better your experience will be with me now that we’ve added this new feature to our sex life. Yay. New holes.”
“Yes, that was me that gave your ex-boyfriend your new phone number. I figured it was fine because you gave me your phone number and you didn’t ask me to not give it to other people.”
“Heads up - I’m sleeping with your sister. Now, I know we’ve explicitly talked about you not wanting me to do this in the past. Especially after you found out I was sleeping with her the first time. But it’s been a few months and, since then, I’ve changed as a person. And when I told you that I was changing and growing, you acknowledged it and said I had permission to do so. Part of my change was going back to sleeping with other people and, if you didn’t take time to ask me how I was changing and what it would affect, that’s your problem. On the upside? She and I aren’t having anal sex yet.”
“Can I borrow your car? Listen... if you want me to do things like pick you up from the bar when you’re drunk or go to the store and get you ice cream, you have to allow me to use your car. In all instances and completely unconditionally. Even times when I want to use it for my own purposes and not just in the fun ways that would otherwise enhance your life. I promise I won’t sell it or destroy it. So, can I borrow it? .. Well, yes of course after I borrow it I’m going to immediately lend it to someone that hasn’t promised that they won’t sell it or destroy it. I thought you knew me by now.”
“Why does your butt hurt? Last night, while you were sleeping, I had anal sex with you. Now, I know you explicitly told me not to do it and even after I told you that I was changing as a person you reconfirmed that anal sex wasn’t part of that change, but hear me out. The other day, you and I were talking on the phone and I asked if I could have anal sex with you. You said no, but before you hung up, some other person grabbed the phone and told me that I could. The person sounded very similar to you and, since you never ended our conversation, I assumed it was you still talking to me. Technically, what that person did was illegal, but I was still told - during my conversation with you - that we could have anal by someone that could have been you. I know... I was as shocked as you are, but rather than ask you why you changed your mind about something you were so vehement about, I decided to immediately have anal sex with you. Yay. Anal is back.”
“You’re breaking up with me? Yeah right. We have all the same friends. Any time you go anywhere, all of your friends will be talking about me and bugging you about why you’re not with me anymore. You’ll last a week. Tell you what... I won’t remove any of your stuff. You can leave, but when you come back - and you will - everything will be exactly as you left it. Why don’t you ring up your loser ex, MySpace? Oh, he’s calling himself My____, now? What a bitch.”
What about the people who run Jergens Skincare Products? They make a big deal about how their product transforms your skin into a moisturized garden of majestic touchability, but they refuse to acknowledge the fact that - as far as the rest of the world is concerned - they’re just the official lotion of masturbation.
Can we cut the shit? You guys make jack-off accelerator. And a great one, at that. That’s not something to be ashamed of. Just run commercials that say, “When your rod is rigid and it’s time to lose a few liquid ounces, turn to the best. Jergens. Draining balls since 1958.”
Or “Take it easy on the old cock this summer. Lab studies show that Jergens reduces jerk-related chafing by 40% more than the leading brand. And now America’s favorite cum reducer comes in our new ‘junkie pussy’ scent. Treat your shaft to the shameless aroma of directionless post-college summer nights.”
Embrace it, Jergens. I mean... that’s what we’re doing with your product, right? And thanks for helping with that.
By the way, is Jergens even good for your skin? How would you know - has anyone ever used it on their elbows? Let’s stop the charade.
I’m sure this fad will end soon, but I’d like to formally make a plea to all men who wear skinny jeans. Please stop letting women dress you. Sure, the ladies say “skinny jeans are cool,” but they’re really thinking, “skinny jeans are cool because they make it easier to tell which guys are weak-minded enough to make carry my purse.”
Make somebody respect you, for Christ’s sake. Put on a comfortable pair of pants and tell Donna Karan to go sell her shit to Europeans or something. We’re done with this. If Martin Luther King was alive today, he’d say, “Hey, everyone, I’ve got a new dream. This one’s pretty cool. Not only do folks get along a little better, but we’re also all wearing reasonable clothing. Can we march somewhere until it becomes a priority?”
Here’s to the guy that gives his 4 year old a fully-shaven mohawk because he thinks it makes the kid seem cool or edgy. All you’re telling me is this:
“Hey, man. Um... look, don’t bother. We’re never going to be friends. I’m the kind of guy that keeps the companies that sell sleeveless t-shirts in business. I’m the guy who sells drugs to his parents and thinks that he’s being a good son by offering them a 25% discount. This isn’t going to be a thing where we have stuff in common. Keep rolling, okay? I’ll see you at parent-teacher night.... or, more likely, not.”
Almost conversely, I’m pretty sick of every guy I’ve ever met who tastes wine for a living and talks about it to the other wine-sipping assholes.
I can’t wait till the apocalypse when we’re all going to get together and say, “Jake the soldier? You’re on the flank. Hold those guns up tight. Steve the plumber? I need you to dig me a trench and get that irrigation going. These guns are getting hot and we need to keep them moving. Larry the carpenter? If those barriers start leaning back into the camp walls, I need you to get a few guys behind you and buttress them back up. Aleksandro the sommelier? You... uh... you’re pretty fucking useless, so why don’t you stuff yourself with apples and commit suicide so the rest of us can have something to eat tonight. Mike the architect? I need to see those bunker schematics in the next hour!!”
You’ve also got this guy... the guy who loves camping a little too much.
First of all, let’s look at it from a different angle. Let’s say you wake up tomorrow morning and everything has gone horribly wrong. Maybe you’ve lost your job and your family. Maybe you’ve lost your house. Maybe you’ve developed whatever disease Forrest Whittaker has and you’ve lost the ability to function as a useful human in society. What do you do? What’s the big move? You going to start sleeping outside? Eating half-cooked food wrapped in foil while sitting on the ground? Defending the three things you own from wild animals and street reavers? Shitting in a hole?
This is what camping is. It’s the voluntary act of placing yourself into life’s worst case scenario. The reason you get up in the morning and go to whatever job you hate and pay those bills is specifically so you can avoid doing the activities that camping is comprised of. In fact, if your life somehow devolved into a state where you were forced to do all of the things that you willfully do while camping, you’d consider it a complete failure.
Now - camping guy says, “Yeah, but it’s nice. You get outdoors. You get air. You become one with nature. You test your mettle against the elements. You tell stories and sing around a fire. It’s fun.” I get that. But here’s my question... why stop there?
If you get a rush out of spending a weekend in the civilized human’s average hell, then why not spend a wild weekend living over a shitty bodega in a bad neighborhood in Philly with an angry bipolar woman who can’t speak English? Why not put on a blindfold and handcuff yourself to a truck stop urinal along Interstate 95 for a week with the word “gloryhole” written in Sharpie across your forehead? You seem to like roughing it. You enjoy tossing caution to the wind and feeling alive. Why not get a little variety in your human risk diet?
Here’s my problem with Mexico. And before I do this... yes, I acknowledge that this is probably racist.
Look... guys... if I was your shrink, I’d diagnose you with low self-esteem and only charge you for a one hour visit. All of your issues can be traced back to a dire need to start letting yourself be happy. Ta da. That’ll be 200 pesos.
First of all, a lot of your people are very unattractive. I’m not saying that as a criticism, but more as a building block to the discussion. For every Salma Hayek, you’ve got thirty Lisa De Razzo’s walking around in halter tops. For every Antonio Banderas, you’ve got the parking lot of 700 Home Depots. And it’s okay. I’m not here to make fun - I’m just doing math in public.
So, given that reality, why are you having so many kids? Shouldn’t you, at a point, get tired of facing down a nasty genital maw and just deal with the celibacy instead? I don’t get it. If I was surrounded by these people, I’d be Saint Assman the Disgusted & Chaste.
Second, tell me how this sounds. Wake up in the morning, risk your life on an illegal journey to a rude city, take a shitty job that the people of the rude city wouldn’t be bothered with themselves, receive almost no money for this job, go home and watch the news to see how much these rude people wish you weren’t there, get fucked by an ugly person, cry into a pillow while whispering something about the Virgin Mother, get ready to do it again.
Is that anyone’s idea of a golden existence or is that basically the worst life scenario imaginable? This is maybe 3 steps below camping. So, why the fuck is this the goal? There isn’t a plan B somewhere? Isn’t it infinitely more reasonable to just make your own country slightly less shitty so you don’t have to come to America and be humiliated by people who hate you every day? The country with self-esteem says, “Hey, screw these Americans. We’re going to clean up down here and make it work. I’m tired of cleaning R.Kelly’s house and getting pissed on every Tuesday.” The country with no self-esteem says, “Eh... at least the piss is warm.”
Think about it, Mexico. You guys invented the tortilla. You think you can’t work your way out of this pickle? I’ve got faith in you.
And seriously, stop fucking so much. That's all I've got. Enjoy Festivus.